War Dogs
by Portia6
Summary: Broken Saints. Detailing from his birth, through his friendship to Oran, to his death, Hassan's story is told.


It's because of our reputation that we are seen as dogs. Dogs of the dirt of as dogs of war, we are seen as both in one. If we are either fighting or plotting, we are still feared.  
  
Hm...I never made that revelation until this moment.  
  
Betrayal IS the fueling element of deep thought.  
  
How unfortunate.  
  
Session 1: The Birth of the Unlucky One  
  
Baghdad, Iraq  
  
1975  
  
"PUSH!"  
  
Screams filled the air with deafening throes as sweat beaded on the young woman laying on the bed, legs wide and damp with the the hard exertions of childbirth. Her young husband stood by her side, gripping her hand and staring down hopefully towards where the imam crouched, hands out to recieve the wet, trembling bundle that would scream in place of his mother's fading ones. His wife in turn wandered from window to window to close them and shut out the roar of traffic outside, followed by her four year old son, gazing mournfully every so often towards the shaking woman.  
  
"Mama?" he whispered, tugging on her long, black skirt.  
  
She turned wearily towards the little boy, eyes rimmed with tired anticipation. But she smiled and crouched down to eye level with her son, careful to not talk above a whisper to distract the young mother.  
  
"Yes, habibi?"  
  
"Is she alright?"  
  
His mother looked up quickly at the strained woamn, teeth clenched and nostrils flaring as she cursed her patient husband, hissing on how his eyes should be put out and fed to goats and his body trampled in the streets. All the while, the young husband nodded and smiled, agreeing to everything his wife growled. The mother looked back to her son, and nodded.  
  
"She's fine, habibi..."  
  
" HASSAN TAHIR! AS SOON AS THIS CHILD COMES OUT, I'M GOING TO STRANGLE YOU WITH MY HAIR AND RIP OUT YOUR TEETH!"  
  
"...just fine."  
  
"Ayesha, he's coming..."  
  
"I don't care, I don't care, I don't caHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"  
  
The wife gave her son a quick pat and walked quickly to the side of her flustered husband, and crouched beside him.   
  
"Reza, do you think it may be stuck?" she whispered urgently into his ear, which he responded with a jerk of his head.  
  
"No Farihah. It is almost out...hopefully, the cord hasn't wrapped itself around it's neck and cut off it's breathing..."  
  
The bed jerked and squeaked in protest, and the woman gave a hoarse shout, mingling with a shrill squeal of indignation. The imam gave a sigh of relief, and picked up the squirming child from the bloodied sheets, slick with placenta and flailing his tiny fists.  
  
"A boy....a baby boy..." The young mother laid back on the propped pillow, breathing heavily, her eyes shut in exhaustion and her licking curls plastered to her forehead. The young father gave her a quick kiss on her lips before rushing to the imam, who gazed down with confused pride at the now quiet and open eyed child.  
  
" Is he healthy, Reza?" he asked urgently. Fingers fumbled towards the blanket's edge, and pulled back to stare at large golden brown eyes. One of the imam's hands cupped over the baby's scalp, stroking the soft skin and downy hair wistfully. The young father grinned with delight at the sight of his small son, who in turn had eyes that looked over the smooth planes and high cheekbones of his father's face.  
  
"He has Ayesha's eyes and mouth, but by God, he has my face."  
  
"Yes...he does." The imam kept his hand cupped over the child's scalp, and smiled. "He does."  
  
"Come now Reza, let's see if he has any hair to shave off at least now, if not for the next seven days." The young father tugged at the imam's hand, eager to see the crisp black curls of his family.  
  
"Hassan-"  
  
The two stood quiet, the father's eye widened in shock, the imam's eyebrows raised questioningly.  
  
"White." the father murmured. "White haired."  
  
There was no crisp black curls. Instead, there was only fine, soft, pure white hair that was lightly topping the child's scalp.  
  
The child blinked, tilting it's head slightly, bemused at the numb look on his father's face.  
  
"Ho...how?"  
  
The imam shrugged. "It is the will of God, Hassan. A child may be born anyway he feels that it must be born. I am quite sure your Ayesha was faithful...perhaps it will fall out and black will come in instead."  
  
"Perhaps." The father stroked the baby's rounded cheek slowly. "But it COULD have been a mishap in chromosome strcutre, or a mutation of some sorts."  
  
The imam shrugged again, and gently placed the bundle into the father's arms.  
  
"I am a Man of God, and one that serves Him, Hassan. If was the act of genes, then it cannot be changed....but I feel this little one has a prupose."  
  
"He will." The father said quickly. He gazed down proudly at the baby. "Another branch of the Tahir family, another one to make the family proud. He will become a scientist...just like his father, and his grandfather, and his great grandfather..."  
  
"Do not get TOO caught up in the future, Hassan." The imam chuckled. "After all, he hasn't even have had the Adhan and Iqaamah whispered into his ears yet!"  
  
"Yes...I suppose you'll want to go ahead and do that."  
  
"No, my friend. This is your first born, and your son. You may do the honors."  
  
The young father sniffed back tears of joy, and lifted the baby boy in the direction of Mecca.  
  
"In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful..."  
  
---------------------------------  
  
Oran stood up on his toes as the child was placed for the first time into it's bassinet, eager to see the face of he newly born.  
  
"Father...may I?"  
  
" May he, Hassan?"  
  
"Well....Ayesha?"  
  
A slim, beautiful hand lifted and made a consentual gesture.  
  
"Father?"  
  
"Yes Oran...just be quiet."  
  
The little boy perked up eagerly, and peered down into the round face, dark brown eyes locking with golden brown.  
  
The imam smirked, and turned to his friend.  
  
"Seems my son has taken to yours."  
  
"Well, that's what we want, now do we?"  
  
"Of course....hopefully, my own will be able to assist your little one in this way of the world."  
  
"As long as my own reurns the favor."  
  
Oran smiled, and reached down a hand, only to have a plump fist lock around his index finger.  
  
" Hello, Hassan." 


End file.
